


something in the wires made the light bulbs break,

by Poe



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bucky Barnes-centric, Consensual Mind Control, Fix-It, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mind Control, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Recovery, reuploaded
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2019-02-09 14:02:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12889458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poe/pseuds/Poe
Summary: "Steve," Wanda continues, and Steve's eyes snap open, focussing on her. His eyes are still so empty, and it's like staring at a reflection of himself. It's eerie. Bucky hates it. His stomach twists."Ready to comply," Steve says blankly, and Bucky damn near chokes.*They've found a cure, only, it comes at a cost.





	something in the wires made the light bulbs break,

                It’s not a nice round number of days when they wake him up, seventeen months and two days. And it feels like no time has passed at all.

                As the chamber warms and the glass becomes clear, he can make out the image of a man staring at him, a hand pressed against the outside, blinks, the face becomes clear, it’s _Steve_. Steve wearing a beard and dyed brown hair, Steve with red-rimmed eyes and the expression of a man who has lost so, so much, but Steve nonetheless.

                And if Steve’s here, that means one of two things.

                Either they’ve found a cure.

                Or they haven’t.

                Bucky would very much like to plump for option one right about now.

                The glass slides upwards and Bucky slumps forward a little, and Steve’s hands are there to catch him. Bucky doesn’t flinch at the warmth of it, just lets himself be held upright, and if Steve’s babbling nonsense under his breath that only the two of them can hear, then Bucky’s brain isn’t quite up to parsing it right now. So he lets himself just _be_ , lets himself be held, and lets the rhythms of Steve’s voice wash over him. He closes his eyes. Just for a moment.

                He wakes up again on a small army cot, still in the laboratory his chamber was kept in, still contained, but with more people crowded into the space. He recognises T’Challa, the king, of course, it is by his grace that Bucky has been allowed to live at all. Sam stands to the right of him, arms crossed over his chest. The red-haired woman, and how his brain itches for a name, stands further back, leaning against a wall, one knee drawn up. And finally, there’s the woman from the fight, more of a girl really, dressed in dark reds and blacks, eyes painted with kohl. She watches him warily, unnecessarily so, he can feel the power radiating from her, she’s easily the most dangerous beast in this room.

                And of course, there’s Steve, standing by the head of the bed, watching him anxiously. Bucky can, and has, filled notebooks about Steven Grant Rogers. He looks into Steve’s eyes, before pulling his gaze away. It’s like looking into the sun. There’s something there he can’t bear to let himself see. Steve who wears his heart on his sleeve. Steve who was always a hero. Steve, the name Bucky knew before his own. Steve’s here. It warms him, still.

                The silence pulls taut, then snaps back as T’Challa clears his throat.

                “Bucky,” he says, and how daft does his nickname sound coming from him? Bucky looks up, his right hand fiddling absently with the blankets of the bed, smoothing then crushing together, without thinking about it. “We have found the solution to your condition.” T’Challa continues, and Bucky is a little unsure whether he’s about to throw up or not. It can’t be that easy. It _can’t_.

                “How long’s it been?” Bucky asks, looking at them all. None of them have aged, which is only a good thing. He hasn’t been gone for too long.

                “Nearly eighteen months, Buck. But we’re here now,” Steve says soothingly, and makes an abortive move with his hand, as though he was going to grip Bucky’s shoulder or something. He stops himself, why, Bucky isn’t sure. Steve has always been allowed to touch him.

                “Am I safe?” Bucky asks, and his voice is smaller than he intended. “Have you – have you been safe?” He scolds himself for not asking the latter question first.

                “We will be,” Steve says, and Sam scoffs in the background. Steve shoots him a look. Sam raises his hands in a ‘what can you do’ motion, which explains without needing to explain that Steve has been being reckless once again. Bucky nods, and then punches Steve in the arm.

                Steve draws away, hurt.

                “You probably deserved that,” Bucky says. Steve smiles then, and Bucky looks down at his own knees.

                “You’re probably right,” Steve agrees, rubbing his arm. “But seriously Buck, we’ve got it now. We can fix you.”

                _Fix you_. Not that for a moment does Bucky believe that Steve believes he is broken. But Bucky knows he is, can feel it in his bones, can feel it in the shadows of his thoughts. It’s easy to say, easy to pretend, but the truth is plainer and more ugly still. Bucky is broken, in the worst way.

                But they can fix him.

                “How?” He half stumbles over the word, one syllable, full of hope.

                The girl steps forward, and nods in greeting.

                “My name is Wanda,” she says. She extends a hand for him to shake. He takes it, and it’s like touching a livewire. She is power incarnate.

                “We found this,” Sam says, holding up a familiar looking red leather bound book with a black star on the front. Bucky jerks back on the bed, and this time Steve does touch him, resting a hand gently on Bucky’s shoulder, thumb finding the gap between muscle and bone and pressing in softly. Bucky can’t take his eyes off the book. It’s the book of _him_ , it’s every bad thing he’s ever gone through, every trigger, every poisoned word. And Sam’s holding it as though it’s not the most disgusting thing Bucky’s ever seen.

                Sam flips through it idly, and Bucky notes that several of the pages are bookmarked, and several more have inserts added, probably translations. It’s not the clean and carefully maintained book the Soviets used anymore; this is a book that’s been near torn apart in an attempt to understand. It reminds Bucky of his own journals. In a way, aren’t they one and the same? The innermost parts of his brain, his thoughts, his actions, scrawled out in black ink, powerful yet seemingly so harmless.

                Bucky focuses on the way Steve’s thumb is massaging small circles just above his shoulder. It grounds him.

                “Natasha helped us translate it,” Steve says, and another name slots into place. The red-haired woman nods at him. She is all careful movement and grace. She is a caged animal in an enclosure too small to hold her. He can tell she’d rather be anywhere but here.

                “A lot of it is theoretical, things they could have done, things they were going to do, things they wanted to do. We found the trigger words, they were very proud of that. It was all they could do to control you Bucky. The way they tell it, you fought constantly. Every single day. You kept fighting. For seventy years, you never stopped. Buck – ” Steve starts, but Bucky cuts him off.

                “Not hard enough, never hard enough,” and shrugs Steve’s hand off his shoulder.

                “Definitely hard enough,” Sam says. “They only successfully managed to implant one set of trigger words. That makes our job a hell of a lot easier. You beat them, man.”

                Bucky looks over at T’Challa, who has been observing the conversation silently. T’Challa just raises an eyebrow at Bucky. _Isn’t this what you wanted?_

                Of course it’s what Bucky wants. But it can’t be this easy.

                “How – how are you going to get rid of them? Because they’re in there, deep inside me. They’re a part of me. They itch. Two years I ran to get free of them, and I never could. What makes you think you can scrub them out?” Bucky asks, to anybody.

                Wanda straightens, drawing herself to her full height.

                “Steven Grant Rogers, Joseph Rogers, Sarah Rogers, nineteen eighteen, Brooklyn,” she says, voice blank, and Steve goes all loose beside Bucky, and Bucky looks up and Steve’s eyes are closed. His hands dangle by his sides. Bucky gets the feeling he could just push him over without much effort. Everything about Steve’s body, for it is a body, Steve isn’t there, ( _Steve isn’t there_ , his brain panics) is easy and relaxed.

                “Steve,” Wanda continues, and Steve’s eyes snap open, focussing on her. His eyes are still so empty, and it’s like staring at a reflection of himself. It’s eerie. Bucky hates it. His stomach twists.

                “Ready to comply,” Steve says blankly, and Bucky damn near chokes.

                “Stop it,” he says, voice strained. Nobody pays attention to him. “Stop it!” he yells.

                “Steve, can you please place your left index finger to the tip of your nose,” Natasha says. Steve does so. “Steve, please stand on your right leg,” Natasha continues. Steve complies. He holds the pose unquestioningly, unwaveringly.

                “Hours of fun,” Sam says, “we got him to do the whole USO tour routine once,” he glances at Bucky’s face, “less fun for you perhaps. Okay then.”

                “Please make him come back,” Bucky says in a small voice.

                “Steve, pay attention to me now,” Wanda says, “Brooklyn, nineteen eighteen, Sarah Rogers, Joseph Rogers, Steven Grant Rogers.” Steve kind of sags, and trips as his foot hits the ground. He looks around, briefly confused. His gaze lands on Bucky.

                “They showed you, huh?” He says.

                “They made you like me. _They made you like me_ ,” Bucky whispers, frantic.

                “So they could fix you,” Steve calms.

                “No, no, no, no,” Bucky tries to bury his head in his remaining arm, and realises as he touches his face to skin that he’s been crying. He doesn’t notice Steve kneeling down in front of him until firm hands are resting on his knees.

                “Hey, Buck, it’s okay. You’ll be able to watch them fix me, that’s the point. We had to figure out how to make it work. And how to reverse it. Wanda’s powerful. She gets inside people’s heads. She knows what she’s doing.”

                “Why you?”

                “Because he volunteered for that voodoo shit,” Sam mumbles.

                “Because I’m the closest thing there is to you. Same serum, same blood, same memories,” Steve says.

                “Not all the same memories,” Bucky interjects.

                “True. And I will never belittle what happened to you, or try to compare myself to you. But I’m the closest we’ve got,” Steve says, hands still on Bucky’s knees.

                “You’re an idiot,” Bucky tries to smile.

                “I know, I’ve been informed,” Steve grins back.

                “Damn right,” Sam says, and then coughs like he didn’t mean to say it.

                “How – how are you going to reverse it?” Bucky asks, and Steve shakes his head.

                “This isn’t my first rodeo. Wanda’s zapped me a few times now, different words every time. Every time, she’s gotten rid of them. She can do the same for you.”

                Bucky can’t believe it, doesn’t dare to. Needs to see it, and understands suddenly that Steve knows this too. Which is why he’s done this. Why he’s shown Bucky that he can be controlled. _Self-sacrificing idiot._

                “They’re like a spider’s web, inching through your brain,” Wanda explains. “Spider’s webs are very strong, but I’m stronger.” She steps towards Steve, and gestures with her head for him to sit beside Bucky on the bed.

                “You remember the words,” she says. Bucky nods. “They won’t affect him after this,” she says.

                She places a finger gently to Steve’s temple, the lightest of touches, and Steve’s eyes slide shut. Her eyes close too, her forehead creased slightly in concentration. Beneath her eyelids, Bucky can see her eyes moving from left to right then back again, as though she’s chasing something. Her finger seems to glow, bright red sparks, and slowly, so slowly, she draws it away from Steve’s head, a stream of red glow following, sparking off, until the bond breaks and dissipates into thin air. She opens her eyes. Steve stays still.

                “Steve,” Natasha says now. “Steven Grant Rogers, Joseph Rogers, Sarah Rogers, nineteen eighteen, Brooklyn,” she enunciates carefully. Steve’s eyes open, and he grins.

                “Nothing,” he says, smiling. “It’s gone. That pull, that drive, it’s not there.”

                Natasha repeats the words, leaving a couple of seconds between each one, but Steve remains coherent and present. Bucky allows himself to _hope_.

                “See, Buck?” Steve turns to face him, his face bright. Bucky gives a small nod. “This is the best chance we have,” Steve says.

                “I know,” Bucky says, choked.

                “May I take a look?” Wanda asks carefully, still standing in front of them. Bucky looks at her, then at Steve, who nods slightly, encouraging, before looking back at Wanda. He nods. The tension in the room grows slightly, as Wanda places her palm on the side of his head, just above his left ear. Steve takes his right hand in his. He closes his eyes and grits his teeth.

                At first, there’s nothing but the black. Then, red sparks dash across his vision. He flinches involuntarily, but Steve’s hand holds him in place. The sparks spread out, a matrix behind his eyelids, and seem to weave patterns he can’t begin to comprehend. He can feel Wanda inside of him, inside his head. She’s speaking a language he doesn’t understand, too soft to catch the words, and he doesn’t know if it’s verbal or telepathic.

                White flares bright briefly, and Wanda pulls her hand back quickly, as if stung. His eyes snap open. All eyes are on Wanda.

                “I found them. They’re buried deep, but they’re there. I can pull them out. But – it will not be so simple. Steve, the longest we implanted the words for were six months. Bucky’s words are deeper, imprinted almost, a part of him.”

                “It’s going to hurt, isn’t it?” Bucky sighs. He hates this. He hates it all so much. Every time the pain seems to be over, there it is again, in new and unexpected forms.

                “I don’t have to – there could be another option,” Wanda tries.

                “There isn’t though, is there?” Bucky is blunt.

                “No,” Wanda admits.

                “Do it. Please. Just. Don’t stop if I scream. And – and don’t let me hurt anyone. If it goes wrong. Put me down. Don’t – Steve, don’t let me hurt anyone.” Steve’s grip tightens on Bucky’s hand.

                “I won’t. You won’t hurt anyone, Buck. I promise.”

                “Promise me you’ll stop me,” Bucky urges.

                Steve bites his lip, forces the words out, “I promise.”

                “Do it,” Bucky says to Wanda. She hesitates. Then gathers herself. She places her hand to Bucky’s temple again.

                “I’m so sorry,” she says, and Bucky keeps his eyes open, focussing on her, the concentration on her features. He can see the red flares over his vision, gradually growing hotter and brighter, turning to white as she chases the words across his mind. She digs deeper, and his eyes slam shut. It starts like the onset of a migraine, persistent and throbbing. It soon becomes agonising. He isn’t brave. He throws his head back and screams.

*

                His throat hurts when he tries to swallow. His mouth tastes of blood. He shifts, and his head blossoms with fresh pain. A migraine above his left eye. A hand on his bicep helps him to sit up, and then he feels the cool sensation of a cup of water against his lips, a hand helping him to drink. He takes a few sips, dimming the blood, soothing the hurt. He forces his eyes open. The room is darkened, and he can just make out the image of Steve beside him.

                “How’re you feeling?” Steve asks.

                “Been better,” Bucky replies. “Did she – did it work?”

                “I didn’t know, if you’d want it to be me. But I’ve been practising my Russian especially. We can find out,” Steve says. Bucky shakes his head.

                “No, the wrong syllable in the wrong place and it won’t work. It has to be precise. They were – precise. Natasha. Can she do it?”

                Steve nods.

                “I’m not leaving you though,” he says.

                “I could hurt you,” Bucky warns.

                “You won’t,” Steve assures.

                Bucky lets himself doze whilst they wait for Natasha to arrive. Clearly, Bucky had slept longer than he’d realised. She pads into the room in sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt, hair not quite as perfect as you’d expect. She must have been asleep.

                She wastes no time. She stands by the door, a cat with hackles raised, and begins to speak.

                “Тоска – ” Bucky tenses, feeling that rush of adrenaline spike through him. Expecting that loss of control.

                “Ржавый – ” Nothing’s happening, but it’s too soon to tell. Steve’s hand finds Bucky’s in the darkness. 

                “Семнадцать – ” Bucky squeezes Steve’s hand hard enough to break the bones of any normal human. Steve doesn’t make a sound.

                “рассвет - Печь - Девять - Доброкачественные - Возвращение домой - Один - Грузовой.” The words are fluent and without mercy, spoken with hushed but strict tones. Steve runs a hand through Bucky’s hair as Bucky shakes against them.

                “автомобиль.” The final word – _freight car_ , drops heavily from Natasha’s tongue. Bucky pushes his head against Steve’s hand, like a wounded animal, and he’s crying, ugly tears and snot running down his face.

                But he isn’t the Winter Soldier. He’s still Bucky. He’s present and alert and he can feel Steve’s fingers wrapped in his hair, can feel Steve’s hand in his. He’s exhausted, brutally beaten down, like he could sleep for a week, but he’s still here.

                “Buck?” Steve asks, though he doesn’t have to. He knows. They both know. Bucky just nods. Steve lets out a strangled sound, and it takes Bucky a moment to realise he’s crying too.

                “It’s been so long,” Steve says, his voice mangled. He moves, pressing his face into Bucky’s hair, breathing him in.

                “Too long,” Bucky mumbles. “Are you sure -”

                “I’m sure,” Steve says. “Buck, you’re free.”

                _Free_ is an interesting word to a man who has lived for more than seventy years as a captive. _Free_ tastes strange in his mouth as he rolls it around his tongue. He says it slowly, drawing it out.

                “I’m free,” he says, throat protesting, voice broken. “I’m free,” he says again, because he can.

                Steve snuffles his nose against Bucky’s ear, and Bucky leans into the touch. There’s so much he’s missed, so much that still claws away at him, the memories that won’t ever truly fade. But for a moment, at least, he allows himself this much: he is free.             

               

**Author's Note:**

> in the spirit of christmas, or something, i've decided to reupload one of my old fics every day, in the hopes that i can start writing again in the new year. if you have one in mind you'd like to see uploaded, let me know in the comments. i appreciate all the support i've received over the years, and apologise for the way my brain behaves sometimes and how damn easy it is to press that 'delete' button. 
> 
> you can find me at new-salem.tumblr.com, if you fancy.


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